


Written in the Stars

by takingovermidnight



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Canon Era, Combeferre is the voice of reason, Enjolras is in love, Enjolras must decide between his boyfriend and france, Established Relationship, Grantaire is drunk and asleep, M/M, Regret, This is nothing new, and its just kind of a cycle of that, and then no regret, he is always the voice of reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingovermidnight/pseuds/takingovermidnight
Summary: During what could very much be his final night alive, Enjolras contemplates whether or not the rebellion was really worth it.





	Written in the Stars

Enjolras’ chest rose and fell emulating the rhythm of a tide that was gently going in and out. He was tired, but could not sleep. As bad as he knew he needed to rest for the day ahead, he did not want to be unconscious for what could very much be his final hours of life. At dawn, it wouldn’t be so clear how much more time he would have. His head was always in the future, but the future was dwindling, and he knew that in these last few moments he had to live in the present.

He stared at the stars above, and took note of all the constellations in some attempt to keep himself awake. He could easily stay awake by thinking of other things, mainly the inevitable downfall he and all of his friends would meet the next day, but he would not bring himself to do so. To think he had been so fervent on the belief that revolution would persist, only to have the flame that he had inside of him for his whole life die down to embers in only a matter of hours. 

When the stars were no longer beautiful enough for him, he stared down at the fragile life lying against his chest. The head rising and falling along with his breaths as though it was riding over little unbroken waves at the beach on a summer’s day. The once loud and outrageous drunkard was now pacified, and one could mistake him for an entirely different man as he slept. It amazed Enjolras how he could be so tranquil when danger was so imminent, but one can suppose that the cynic was able to rest easily because he had already predicted the end before the battle had even begun. Not only did the drunkard know he was going to die the next day, he had accepted it. Enjolras was still trying to achieve the latter.

The previous night they fought about that very matter of the proximity of death, and they fought loudly too. There was no doubt that the whole block could hear them, perhaps all of Paris could as well. One could joke about how maybe that was really how the inspector had discovered their plans. With all jokes aside, there was some tension the night before, and only in this very moment did Enjolras really realize why. At the time his side seemed to be the only logical one, but now he saw the other’s side with his own eyes. He had a good life where he would wake up next to the love of his life every morning. He had a good life where he could spend everyday with with his closest friends. No wonder Grantaire was resistant to leaving it behind, especially for a rebellion that ultimately would fail. Fighting still had to be right though. They would go down in history and leave a precedent for future rebellions to follow. There is not victory unless a battle is fought, but unfortunately there are times when that battle is lost and instead it is used as a lesson: a lesson of the true necessity of change.

“It is better to die fighting for freedom than to live your life a slave!” Enjolras had hollered the night before.

“I may be a slave, but I am in love… and I would take love over freedom any day,” Grantaire had replied softly and sweetly enough to drive his point even further than he would with any sort of anger.

Enjolras again looked up at the stars. This time he did not search for constellations to name inside his head, no he searched for something deeper, something more abstract. He never believed in destiny, and it took falling in love to change that. Tonight he decided to question his fate for only the second time in his life. Perhaps he had not been swayed in the argument for a reason. Perhaps it was already written in the stars that he was meant to die on June 6, 1832. 

The stars did not reassure him much, and he could not find the fate they had written out for him. The more he pondered, the more pensive and unsure he became. He did not want to think so cynically of his revolution, but he was constantly being dragged down into a place of doubt. When he had hoped to be inspired, he instead would ask himself inside of his head, ‘what kind of leader am I? Do I really still believe in the necessity of his cause?’ He ultimately decided to discard those ludicrous thoughts. Of course he cared for his cause, and nothing in his life could sway his devotion to the republic. His small army of peasants and schoolboys had survived one day, who is to say that they cannot survive another? The more he is able to push ahead, the more people will rise up and join him in the fight. The people would rise. He was sure of it.

“The rain seems to have cleared up quickly,” A familiar voice said, breaking Enjolras from his trance. Enjolras turned his head back towards the earth to see Combeferre sitting next to him and staring up into the night sky just as he was before.

“Its a beautiful night isn’t it?” Enjolras replied still looking over to Combeferre who was entranced by the stars. Combeferre nodded slightly, but Enjolras could tell that the astronomy above had captured his friend’s interest more closely than any conversation that he could muster up in the given moment ever could have. 

He then shifted his gaze back down towards Grantaire who was still asleep and laying against him, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and exhaled loudly. He then opened his eyes again and kept them fixed on the sleeping boy, studying every part of his relaxed face. From his delicate eyelids that hid from the world the most piercing blue eyes one could image, to his light pink lips that were parted ever so slightly, allowing gentle breaths to escape through them. Enjolras only broke the looming silence between him and his friend to share, “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is a miracle of human creation, but yet again, aren’t we all?” Combeferre replied only now moving his eyes away from the sky and onto his friend. Not to Enjolras’ attention, though, as he was still studying the boy sleeping in his lap with a forlorn and perhaps even remorseful look on his face.

“If he dies out here, will it be me who kills him?” Enjolras asked. The question was seemingly out of the blue to Combeferre, but it had been irking Enjolras ever since the very moment that Grantaire had wasted himself to the point of drunken stupor and decided to use Enjolras as a bed.

Combeferre stared at Enjolras in disbelief. Even he had never witnessed the chief doubt despite being his closest ally. The two would ponder the moral dilemmas of rebellion and fighting, but never had Enjolras been so concerned with another’s safety. Especially one in whom he had no way of controlling. “You cannot control if he lives or dies. He made a decision coming here, and more than any of us he has evaluated the risk. He figured that the risk of losing his life is worth whatever he’s losing it for.”

“I made him come here,” Enjolras replied gravely. The robustness of his voice began to waver more and more as he continued, “I never forced him directly, but I knew that he would follow me to the ends of the earth, and I took advantage of that.” 

“You still did not make him do anything. If anything, his willingness to fight shows that he loves you enough to die for you. It is not-”

Enjolras interjected, “But that would also mean that I did not love him enough to live for him.”

“No, it would not, and you know that. You were certain that we would all survive when the rebellion began. How would you have known that his fears were based in reality? You still do not know for certain if they are.” With that his friend stood up, and walked away in order to find a place to sleep which meant Enjolras was left alone with his thoughts again.

Enjolras was the only one on the barricade that was actually awake. Even Courfeyrac who was supposed to be taking the watch had dozed off into a semi-drunken slumber. In that moment all that really existed was him and Grantaire surrounded by darkness. He could make out the outlines of other friends in the pale moonlight, but just barely. The sleeping schoolboys almost seemed more like ghosts than people, and there were times when he questioned if they really were. All he knew for certain in that moment was that he was there with Grantaire in his arms for what could very much be the last time.

His arms were wrapped gently around the sleeping boy, but he felt the urge to hug him tight. Enjolras then pressed his head into his curly black hair, closed his eyes, and reveled in the moment. Perhaps it really was worth it to be a slave who was in love, but in that moment was he not free? 


End file.
